Death is not necessarily an old and withered book
with dry pages.
It can be a thousand leaves
of strong and shining text
on a powerful body,
held erect on the vertebrae of a strong spine.

The heart hardly breathes because quietus has been reached,
the torso is like a rock,
the legs are rooted, the ink is dependable.

if the words of death should be considered faded and
sere – where could be the dignity in dying?

Unlike water, paper does not freeze or condense into steam. It does not boil.
The book to end all books.
The final book.
After this, there is no more writing
no more publishing.
The publisher should retire

The eyes grow weak, the light dims.
The eyes squint. They blink.

Belly

The world is prey to a failing of focus.
The ink grows fainter but the print grows larger. In the end, the pages only whisper in deference.
Desire lessens.
Although dreams of love still linger,
The hopes of consummation grow less,
What could be the end of all these hopes and desires?
Here comes the end.